


A Safe Haven

by hear_her_speak



Series: May You Learn [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hear_her_speak/pseuds/hear_her_speak
Summary: As the newly declared Herald of Andraste, Branwen Lavellan has a lot on her plate.  What makes the stress bearable is the friends that she makes along the way.  No one helps her more than Solas, whose counsel and conversations keep her sane.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s)
Series: May You Learn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597180
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an ongoing series about the adventures of Branwen Lavellan and her time as Inquisitor. These stories are not in chronological order, currently, though I may revise as I near completion. 
> 
> While each individual story has a different rating, this is a Solavellan centric, slow burn. Expect mature and explicit content by the end.
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to give this a read and to learn about an OC that has become so near and dear to my heart!

“Just how am I the 'Herald of Andraste’?”  
Branwen stood in the war room, surrounded by Lelianna, Josephine, Cullen, and Cassandra. The room felt stifling and cramped - whether that was from a lack of airflow or her nerves, she wasn’t sure.  
Cassandra answered. “People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.  
“Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading–” said Leliana.  
“Which we have not,” interject Cassandra.  
“The point is, everyone is talking about you.”  
Branwen looked down at her feet. She was trying to remain calm, but she was struggling to hide her scowl.  
“It’s quite the title, isn’t it?” said Cullen. “How do you feel about that?”  
She could not meet his gaze. “I’m no herald of anything. Particularly Andraste.”  
Cullen scoffed. “I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”  
“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign.”  
“And to others,” came Josephine, “a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong.”  
After everything that Branwen had been through, she never would have imagined herself here. Hers was a never ending tale of “wrong place, wrong time.” Or may it was “right place, right time.” But right for whom? Since a storm had washed her onto the Ferelden coast, nothing had been her choice. She hadn’t chosen the Inquisition. She hadn’t wanted any part in it. So why did she feel responsibly now? “So if I wasn’t with the Inquisition…”  
“Let’s be honest,” said Cullen, “They would have censured us no matter what.”  
“And you not being here isn’t an option,” said Cassandra.  
Branwen’s head snapped up, and she glared at Cassandra. She should have had an option. She should have had the chance to reject being the Herald if she chose. But she knew Cassandra was right. She thought back on her life, on all the things that had happened to her over the last three years. She had never really had a choice about anything since that run in with the Templars outside of Kirkwall. Now, here she was, sitting across from one of the very men who had been responsible for the persecution of one of her dearest friends - not that Cullen was aware of that - and she was being asked to work alongside him. If she believed in the Creators, she would think they were cruel. But, there was nothing more to be done, save to accept the role. The fate of Thedas rested in the palm of her hand, and she had no intention of dying.  
“Alright,” she said, “I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do, but-”  
“There is!” responded Leliana. “A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”  
It was something. If nothing else, it might give her a moment away from the prying eyes of the people of Haven. “I’ll see what she has to say.”  
She was told she would find Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands. Cassandra was insistent on coming along, and, despite their differences, Branwen didn’t object. She seemed like a good person to have around in a fight. She instructed Cassandra to meet her at the gate in two hours’ time. In the meantime, Branwen would gather Varric and Solas to come as well. Safety in numbers. That was how the Dalish hunted. That was how she would conduct her business here.  
Cassandra grunted, but made no complaint. Branwen took that as agreement and bowed slightly to Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana before leaving. The double doors slammed behind her with a heavy thud, and Branwen breathed for what felt like the first time in hours. 

* * * * *

Branwen wasn’t sure where she would find Solas or Varric, but Haven was not a large village, so it did not take her long. After exiting the Chantry, she turned to her left and proceeded through a patch of cottages with a small, snow-covered courtyard between them.  
There, in the courtyard, was Solas. She had not seen him since falling unconscious. She was still somewhat unsure about him, but it only seemed right to talk to him. After all, he had saved her life. Twice, now, it seemed. She was sure having him in the field with her would, at the very least, put her mind at ease.  
Solas saw her as she approached. “The Chosen of Andraste,” he called, “A blessed hero sent to save us all.”  
She smiled, hoping it would hide her apprehension. “Am I riding in on a shining steed?”  
“I would have suggested a Griffon, but sadly, they’re extinct.” He genuinely looked sad, and she found it funny, and a bit endearing. He continued: “Joke as you will, posturing is necessary. I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”  
What he said piqued her interest. “What do you mean ruins and battlefields?”  
“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”  
“You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins? Isn’t that dangerous?”  
“I do set wards,” he said, “and if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”  
Branwen got goosebumps, and shivers shot up her spine. The Dalish had said when that happened, the Dread Wolf had walked over your grave. She had always liked that saying, not that it really made any sense. The sensation, on the other hand, was less than enjoyable.  
“I take it you do not like spiders,” said Solas, a small smile just barely lifting the corner of his lips.  
“Does it show?” she laughed. “I hate them. All of them. Big ones, small ones-”  
“Spindly ones, hairy ones, ones with beady little eyes” he added, clearly toying with her now.  
The Dread Wolf walked over her grave again.  
“Falon’din’s tits! Please stop.”  
Solas chuckled. “Colorful.”  
“What? Oh, I’m sorry. My Keeper would have washed my mouth for saying that. I didn’t mean any offence.”  
“A rather blasphemous curse for a Dalish elf, is it not?”  
“I suppose,” she said, “but I confess, it has been some time since I believed in the Creators.”  
Solas looked puzzled, but, oddly, quite pleased by that. “Do you follow Andraste, then?”  
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you, considering I’m her Herald,” she said. “But no. I don’t believe in any gods.”  
“Interesting,” he mused.  
“And you?”  
“My views on the gods are… complex, I suppose. But no, I do not believe in the Creators, or, at least, not in their divinity.”  
“Interesting.” She had so many questions for him. It was not often, at least not in her experience, to find people who didn’t believe in gods, especially not openly. Also, people with intelligence like Solas’s were few and far between, and Branwen was torn between her desire to pick his brain, to learn all he knew, and the fear of seeming too nosy. She decided to let the discussion of gods lie for a while, worrying that that conversation was best left for people better acquainted. She changed the subject. “I’ve never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade. That’s extraordinary.”  
Solas seemed taken aback by this sentiment, but his pleasure was obvious. “Thank you! It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. But the thrill of finding remnants of a thousand year old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”  
“My two best friends are mages,” she told him, momentarily forgetting her woes. She thought of another mage, a young human who she had once known. She said nothing of him.  
“Really?” he said, purely to show that he was listening.  
“One of my friends, Elba, is First to the Keeper. He officially assumed the role when he was eighteen.”  
“A high honor.”  
“Yes,” she said. A part of her would always regret bringing up her past. Remembering her clan made her homesick, and, while she knew they would welcome her back one day, she had never had the freedom to return to them. She repressed the memory and the pain and steered the conversation away from them. “I’ve never been to the Fade,” she said, “Well, I suppose that isn’t true anymore. I’ve never been where I could remember it, at least. But Elba used to tell me about it, especially when we were children. I think I was more fascinated by it than he was, but he humored me.”  
“You seem very close to this Elba,” said Solas.  
So much for not talking about her past. “He was almost like a brother to me,” she said, “both of our parents were killed in a skirmish with some Starkhaven soldiers on the outskirts of the city.”  
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.  
“Thank you. I don’t really remember it, to be honest. I was only about two. But we were taken in by the clan’s craftsman, Derwin. He raised us both.”  
Solas smiled. “Derwin must be a kind man to have taken you both in.”  
“He’s the best,” she said. It was the truth. He was the only father she’d ever truly known. Still, talking about him was difficult. She missed him so much - his smile, his laugh, and the way he always smelled like wood chips and whiskey. She pushed him from her mind. “Anyways,” she shrugged, “I guess you could say I have a soft spot of mages.”  
Solas looked away from her and stared at the Breach once more. “I will stay. At least until the Breach has been closed.”  
This turn in the conversation was like whiplash. She cocked her head, brows furrowed, and observed him. “Oh,” she said, surprised, “Was that in doubt?”  
“I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”  
“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.” Her own determination surprised her, but she meant what she said more than she had meant nearly anything before in her life. She did not want to be the Herald of Andraste, but she also would not squander the opportunities it bore - opportunities to fight the Chantry from within. She would not allow the oppression of mages to continue while she still drew breath. She would not allow the Templar order to continue abusing their power. There would be no more mages cut down before her eyes. Never again.  
“How would you stop them?” He sounded defeated.  
She set her jaw. Memories of her dagger piercing through the eye of a seasoned Templar flashes before her mind’s eye. “However I had to.”  
Surprise crossed his face once again. She could tell he was trying to sum her up and pin down exactly who she was. She wondered how close he was to seeing through her.  
“Thank you,” he said, and the sincerity was evident in the softness of his voice. “It is a relief to know the Herald is a friend to Mages. For now, let us hope that either the Mages or the Templars can seal the Breach.”  
“That’s actually why I’m here,” she said. “I have a favor to ask of you?”  
“Oh?”  
“I’m to journey to the Hinterlands. There’s a member of the Chantry who just might hear our cause. With her help, we might just be able to gain aid.”  
“And you would have me go with you?”  
“I would very much appreciate it, but you’ve done so much already. I want you to know that you are by no means obligat-”  
“I will need to gather my things.”  
“Truly, Solas. I fear I have little choice in the matter, but you-”  
“I am free to do as I will. And I will accompany you to the Hinterlands.” He turned squarely to her and looked her in the eyes with such intensity that she struggled to keep his gaze. “The Breach threatens us all. I will remain by your side until it is closed once more and the world is safe.”  
Branwen was moved by his determination. “Thank you.”  
Solas nodded. “I will ready myself for the road. What time do we depart?”  
“In about an hour and a half. We plan to meet at the gate before leaving.”  
“Then I shall see you at the gate.” He smiled at her and made his leave. She watched him leaving, feeling a strange tug in the pit of her stomach. Unsure what to make of it, she turn away and proceed in her search for Varric.

* * * * *

Before long, Branwen met her three companions at the gate. She’d had found some makeshift armor that, while not a perfect fit, was manageable. Her companions, on the other hand, seemed more than prepared. They set off on foot to the Hinterlands. Cullen had informed them that there was a reputable horse-master in the area who might provide the Inquisitions with mounts in they played their cards right. But, until then, they’d have to walk.  
The Inquisition forces had been sent ahead to scout so that they would not be blindsided when they arrived. Already assured that their path was clear, they walked along leisurely. It would be a long few days. They would not be returning to Haven for at least a week, and, once there, they would have to remain vigilant to the possibility of threat. The slow pace would help them conserve energy before they arrived. There was no need to tire themselves out before they had barely begun.  
Varric made a point of chatting to Branwen. She had decided rather quickly that she liked him very much, and she took comfort in his company. He was asking her all kinds of questions, and honestly, she didn’t mind. It made her feel human again. Like she was more than just a figure on a pedestal.  
“So, Branwen Lavellan,” Varric sang, “Any relation to the Lavellan Clan up in the Marches?”  
Branwen was taken aback. “You know my clan?”  
“Barely. I met them once in passing during my days with the Champion of Kirkwall. Those were good times. That Keeper of yours seems like a hardass. No offence, of course.”  
“None taken. She is a hard ass. In the best way possible.”  
“Sure, no doubt!” He quirked his brow. “So tell me, how does a Dalish Elf get all the way to Ferelden without her clan?”  
“I got into a bit of trouble back home. It wasn’t safe for me to stay. I came here to lay low for a while.”  
Varric laughed. “You call this laying low? Wow, Herald, one rogue to another, we gotta work on your stealth skills. So what’d you do that was bad enough to warrant the boot?”  
“Murder.”  
Varric laughed. “Well, what you lack in subtlety you make up for with wit, I’ll give ya that.”  
Branwen smiled at him. “What? You don’t think I could do it?”  
Varric shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve seen some weird shit in my day. None weirder than this. But you definitely don’t seem the type.”  
“Who knows,” she said, “I might surprise you.”  
“You just might, Herald. You just might.” Varric allowed the silence to linger a moment, before adding, “I don’t know how I feel about calling you Herald. Sounds a little too formal.”  
“You’re welcome to call me Branwen.”  
“Nah, I’m not much on first names. Isn’t that right, Chuckles?” He looked back at Solas, who only sighed in reply. Turning back to Branwen, he asked, “so, what’d you do before becoming the Herald of Andraste?”  
“I don’t know. Lots of things.”  
“Like what?”  
“How far back should I go?”  
“As far as you want,” he said.  
She cleared her throat. “I was born in Harvestmere, on an overcast day-”  
“Okay, point taken. The Dalish have jobs, right? What’d you do?”  
“I guess jobs is one way to look at it. They’re more like roles. We’re assigned ours by the Keeper when we get our Vallaslin. I was only an apprentice, but I was training under Mathalin, our clan Hahren.”  
“You’ll have to cut me some slack, here. I’m rough on my Dalish culture.”  
“A Hahren,” interjected Solas, “is the clan storyteller and teacher. They share the traditions and lore of the clan.”  
“A storyteller, huh? We’re not so different then, are we Herald?”  
“You tell stories, Varric?”  
“I don’t tell so much as I write, but-”  
“What have you written?”  
“Nothing all that impressive. Ever heard of a little book called ‘Hard in Hightown?’”  
Branwen shrugged.  
“Ah, I don’t guess I can blame you. It’s not like you Dalish spend a lot of time around human book stores. But we’re getting off topic, here. What did you get up to after you left the Marches?”  
“I joined a band of Tal Vashoth Mercenaries.”  
“You worked with the Qunari?” came Cassandra. She walked backwards to better participate in the conversation.  
Branwen shook her head. “They didn’t consider themselves that. At least, not anymore. But I guess most humans would still probably call them such.”  
“I have to know,” said Varric, “how does a Dalish elf find themselves mixed up with a band of Tal Vashoth mercenaries?”  
“It’s a really long story.”  
“It’s a really long walk.”  
“I don’t really know that I want to get into it. The short version is that the ship I took from Kirkwall to Fereldan got caught in a storm, and I went overboard during the worst of it. Washed up just outside Amaranthine. The Valo-Kas - that was the name of my company - found me washed ashore, half drowned. They took me in, so I joined up.”  
“Interesting,” said Varric, “you’ve got quite the story.”

* * * * *

They continued on for hours. Her talk with Varric, though jovial in nature, had brought the memories of her fallen friend to the forefront of her mind. She thought of the Valo-kas, her friends. She thought a Shokrakar, a proud woman and the leader of their band. She thought of Kaariss, who spoke on her behalf and was the first to take her in. Mostly, though, she thought of Kaariss’s daughter, who’d become her fast friend. Their death’s weighed heavily on her.  
She hadn’t noticed that her speed had slowed or that she’d fallen to the back of the party until Solas approached her, slowing his speed until they walked side by side, their pace equal and easy.  
“How are you feeling?” he asked her.  
“Fine,” she smiled, but Solas was not deceived. He stopped, and she followed suit, confused and alarmed.  
“How are you truly? You have been through something truly awful. No one will blame you for not feeling ‘fine.’”  
Branwen said nothing, only bit her lips to keep it from quivering.  
“Everything alright back there, Chuckles?”  
“We are quite alright,” Solas replied, “just give us a moment.”  
Varric look decidedly concerned, but he nodded. He and Cassandra continued on, leaving her and Solas alone. Assured of their privacy, Solas placed a slender hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle, a touch that reached down to her core and made it hard to keep her composure.  
“Did you lose people at the Conclave?”  
Branwen nodded, and her breath caught in her throat.  
“You do not have to speak if you don’t want to. I know how difficult grief can be.” His eyes were kind and earnest, and Branwen was forced to look away to maintain what little composure she had left. “But,” he continued, “you must endure. Such is the way of the world.”  
Branwen shook her head. “I just… I feel…” The tears came. She could no longer hold them back. She had been on the verge of tears since waking up in that damn cell, but there hadn’t been time. She tired, in vain, to wipe them away. “Why? Why did I make it out when they-”  
“Enough, Branwen” said Solas. He looked on her with warm eyes and wiped away her tears with the edge of his thumb. Hearing him speak her name shocked her out of her grief. He’d never called her anything but Herald. “What you are feeling is survivor’s guilt. It is understandable. Believe me when I say I have felt its sting myself. But you mustn't let it consume you, do you understand me? Whatever happened at the Conclave, whether accident or fate, you are here. You did not wish those people’s deaths upon them. You did not aim to see their demise.” He placed his other hand on her shoulder, as if to brace her - to ground her in reality. “You are not to blame for what happened. It is not your fault.”  
Relief washed over her. She wept, no longer strong enough to hold back the tears. She covered her face, trying to maintain a modicum of dignity. Solas squeezed her shoulder where he held her steady and let her cry - a degree of formality still between them, but a kindness too. She wept a long while, her tears staining her cheeks. Once they were spent, she collected herself, feeling fresh and new and light. She wiped away the tears and the snot. She felt the delicate skin beneath her eyes and found that it was puffy. She suspected they were red, too. Still, she smiled, and Solas smiled back, ever so slightly.  
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know what came over me.”  
He held up his hand to silence her. “Please, there is nothing to forgive. Grief is a thing that must be processed. I merely hope that I was able to help, in some small way.”  
“You did,” she smiled, “very much so. Thank you, Solas.”  
Branwen looked up the road a ways. Cassandra and Varric were watching them. She was too tired to care. Cassandra seemed altered, though, softer for having seen her breakdown. Perhaps there was a heart behind her gruff exterior after all.  
Solas nodded in their direction. “The day is fading fast, Herald. I suggest we rejoin the others.”  
They walked on.


	2. Small Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Branwen discuss the Fade. Solas realizes he's in trouble

Branwen returned once more to the cluster of cottages to the right of the Chantry. They had returned from the Hinterlands and allowed themselves a few days to recuperate before they planned their next venture. She looked around, hoping to find Solas. He wasn’t outside, so she tried his cottage that he shared with Varric and a few of the other recruits. She knocked on the door, but received no answer. She tried one more time. This time she was answered with a groan, and then a crash. Heavy footsteps fell across the floor and made their way to the door. It was opened only a crack, and Solas peered outside, his eyes small and squinted against the light. He looked confused by her presence.  
“Herald?” He opened the door a little wider, and she could see that he was not wearing a shirt. She had woken him up. “Do you need something?”  
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “No, I don’t. I just wanted to talk.”  
“About anything in particular?”  
“No,” she said. She felt horrible. “Please, forget about it. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Go back to sleep.”  
She began to walk away when he called her back. “Herald,” he called, “I will only be a minute.”  
The door closed again. She waited in the small yard, still feeling guilty for having woken him. He probably thought there was something important to discuss. He would probably be annoyed when he found out that she had just wanted to say hello. He came outside after a brief minute, fully clothed.   
“Hello,” he nodded. “What can I do for you?”  
“You didn’t have to come out here, Solas. I merely wanted to talk. We can do that another time.”  
“Not at all,” he said. “I had intended to explore the Fade for a brief while, but overslept, it seems. What good can I be to our cause if I remain in bed all day? What is it that you wanted to talk about?”  
“I- well, I’d like to know more about you, Solas.”  
He looked at her through narrow eyes. “Why?”  
“Well,” she began, “you’re an apostate, yet you risked your freedom to help the Inquisition.”   
“Not the wisest course of action, when framed that way,” he scoffed. He had taken it as an insult.   
It dawned on her that she had been too forward to even think he would want to talk about himself. She had always been introverted, and with that came a weakness in communication with those she was just getting to know. It wasn’t the talking with people that was hard, just the getting started. It occurred to her that she may have been presumptuous to think his kindness towards her in the Hinterlands meant that they were anything more than acquaintances. She was being too forward. Her next words were said quickly, an air of panic to them.  
“I’m sorry. I- I appreciate the work you’re doing, Solas. And you’ve been so kind to me. I just wanted to know more about you.”  
He relaxed, then. She could see his muscles easing. “No, I am sorry. With so much fear in the air… What would you know of me?”  
She breathed a sigh of relief. “I had just been wondering what made you start studying the Fade?”  
He smiled a little, always eager to talk about the Fade. “Whether like this must be trying for someone from the North,” he began, “Perhaps we could talk about this inside.” He gestured to his cottage. She nodded, and he opened the door to let her in.   
The inside was small and warm. There was a fire that had dwindled down to mostly embers and several cots littered about the room. The bed that she assumed was Solas’s was disheveled from his having recently gotten up, but the blankets and sheets were still tucked in neatly at the foot and along with sides, the signs of a still sleeper. Beside that bed was a thick stack of papers - notes on the breach it appeared - weighted down by a rock. In the middle of it all was a small, round, wooden table and two matching chairs. Solas motioned to the table and invited her to sit. She did. He remained standing, ever so still. Silence lingered, and awkwardness settled between them.  
“May I offer you something to drink?” he asked, politely.   
“What have you got?”  
“I’m not sure,” he chuckled, and she thought of his nickname. She’d assumed it was tongue in cheek. Had Varric ever heard that sound? “Frankly, I don’t have much. There is water. And I believe I saw some ale.”  
“Any coffee?”  
“None that I know of. I certainly haven’t any.”  
“Not to your taste?”  
“Not at all,” he smiled.  
“I think I’ll be fine without a drink, Solas. Perhaps we can just talk?”   
He nodded and took a seat. Branwen shifted in her chair. There was a slight musty smell to the room, but a window right above the bed she believed to be Solas’s was left open, and so the air was not too terrible. Still, it was small and cramped. He must have been sharing the place with at least five other people. His was the real bed, the others were makeshift set ups.  
“How long have you lived here?”  
“Cassandra gave me this cabin shortly after I came to Haven. More accurately, after I helped you close the Breach. I moved in while you slept.”  
“You’ve made the place your own.”  
“My own? Ah, no. It was like this when I moved in. It’s inhabitants, I understand, were lost at the Conclave. As people moved into Haven, those homes that were unfortunate enough to be empty inherited new tenants.”  
“Several, it seems.”  
“I moved in before word of your deeds began to spread. You were unconscious for days, you know. Some feared you would never wake.”  
She nodded, still so deeply out of her depths. She looked down. “Andraste’s tits, I wish I knew what to say.”  
“We’re using Andraste now?” he smiled.   
“Trying to keep up appearances,” she laughed. “Can’t have them thinking Andraste’s chosen is some kind of wild pagan.”  
He laughed at that, then stared at her a moment, looking puzzled, before something flashed behind his eyes. She could see it on his face: the realization that she was introverted. So many people looked at her with pity when they realized her struggles with small talk, that look of oh, the poor dear is shy. She hated their pity. But Solas didn’t show her pity. He just nodded and began to talk, filling the void that had seemed so impossible to her with ease.  
“You wanted to know more about me,” he said, “what would you know?”  
“Um, well, for starters, where are you from?” Alright Branwen, good. You can do this. If you want to be his friend, we just have to get this part over with.  
“I grew up in a village to the north.”  
“How did you end up here in Haven?”  
“There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic,” he said. “So I decided to travel.”  
“Were there others around you gifted with magic? People to teach you? To learn with?”  
“There were other mages, yes, but I was a solitary child. But as I slept, spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. That is where I learned to explore the Fade. I treasured my dreams. Being awake out of the Fade became... troublesome.”  
“Troublesome? How so?”  
He sighed, searching for words. “Well, like I said, I was a lonely child.”  
“You must have had some friends?”  
“A few, of course,” he nodded, “but I was always different. So, even with my kin, I often felt alone.  
She felt deeply sorry for Solas. She reached across the table for his hand. “I know what it means to be alone. I’m so sorry.”  
Their eyes met. And lingered.   
“It is quite alright,” he said, pulling his hand back. She placed hers once again in her lap. “I was fortunate to have friends beyond my village.”  
“Friends? Do you mean spirits?”  
“Yes,” he nodded.   
“Did the spirits not try to tempt you?” she asked.  
He crossed his arms and pushed back from the table, distancing himself. “No more than a brightly colored fruit is tempting you to eat it. I learned how to defend myself from more aggressive spirits and how to interact safely with the rest.”  
“My friend Elba used to tell me stories about the spirits in the Fade,” she said. “He always said that they would try to lure you to their lairs, and then they would capture you and take your soul.”  
“Do you believe that?” he asked, indignant.  
She smiled. “I guess not. I grew up loving scary stories, and Elba was more than happy to oblige. I think he was just trying to indulge me.” Solas’s cold demeanor thawed ever so slightly. “I guess in truth I know nothing about spirits. Tell me about them?”

* * * * *

The Herald continued to surprise Solas. She was so inquisitive, so eager to learn. More than that, she was eager to learn from him. She didn’t think he was crazy at all, in fact, she thought he was wise. Solas could hardly believe it. It’d been so long since he had been treated with respect, let alone treated as a friend. He really didn’t know what to make of her. All these people were nothing more than shadows of what they should be: narrow minded, closed off, lifeless. And then there was Branwen.  
Were they on a first name basis? Could he call her that? Lady Branwen? Herald?   
She wanted to hear about the spirits, so he told her. He told her about the spirits of grief and compassion that had found him in his youth and given him the nurture and comfort that he so longed for from his kin. He told her about the spirits of humor that had spent so many hours making him laugh in his dreams, fighting the sadness with smiles. What surprised him the most was how quickly and how easily he told her about his dearest spirit friend, the spirit of wisdom, who had used her gifts to help Solas put his sorrow and loneliness into perspective, how she had helped him learn from the pain and grow. All the while, Branwen listened intently, saying nothing.   
When he finished, he was suddenly nervous. What must she be thinking?  
“Elba once told me that demons are corrupted spirits. Is that true?”  
“Yes,” he said, surprised by her question. Again.  
“And don’t mages bind demons? Force them to do their bidding?”  
“Yes,” he said. “It is often the binding that turns them into demons in the first place. They are forced to act against their will, to become something they’re not.”  
She looked sad. “So we - I mean the people on this side of the Fade - vilify the very demons we create. The spirits are just like the elves, aren’t they? Either removed from the world of men, or slaves.”  
She got it! She understood. More than that, what amazed Solas the most about her, was that she empathized.   
Solas was suddenly afraid. This world was wrong, and these people weren’t people, but here was this woman with more heart than most of the elves of his time. And if she was here, if she was real, then were they all real? Was he wrong?   
Worst of all, when he looked at her, his gut felt twisted and warm and heavy and light all at the same time. He knew that feeling, but it had been millennia sense he had felt it. A part of him wanted to ask her to leave.  
He wasn’t strong enough to act on that part, though.   
Instead, he kept talking, sensing her introversion, deeper than his own, knowing that she was happy to listen and not speak, not yet at least, not until she felt comfortable. He told her about his journeys, the things he had seen. “I learned how to control my dreams with full consciousness. There was so much I wanted to explore.”  
“I gather you didn’t spend your entire life dreaming,” she smiled.  
“No. Eventually I was unable to find new areas in the Fade.”  
“Why?”  
“Two reasons. First, the Fade reflects the world around it. Unless I traveled, I would never find anything new. Second, the Fade reflects and is limited by our imaginations. To find interesting areas, one must be interesting.”  
“Ah,” she smiled. “So you came to Haven to see more of the world. What about joining the Inquisition? Was that to be more interesting?” she asked in jest.  
He answered in all seriousness. “I joined the Inquisition because we were all in terrible danger. If our enemies destroyed the world, I would have nowhere to lay my head while dreaming of the Fade.”  
“I wish you luck,” she smiled, “May you find what it is you’re looking for there.”  
“Thank you. In truth, I have enjoyed experiencing more of life to find more of the Fade.”  
“How so?”  
He paused a moment, trying to craft a comparison. “You train to shoot an arrow to its target. The grace with which you do so is a pleasing side benefit. You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I.”  
She smiled a sly smile and batted her eyes comically. “So you’re suggesting I’m graceful?” He was pleased to see her sense of humor emerging. It meant she felt comfortable around him, as he did around her. Maybe too comfortable.  
His response came out of his mouth before he had time to think. She was beautiful, he had noticed, and the part of him that had become proficient in the art of wooing in his youth took over. He would chastise himself later, regret that he had opened that door, but in the moment, he could not resist. “No. I am declaring it. It is not a subject for debate.”  
She smiled, and her eyes flitted to her lap. Despite this, he still caught the slightest flush of red on her cheeks. Her fingers combed through her hair. Her beautiful, dark hair.  
Fenedhis lasa.   
He was in too deep already, but he wanted more. He wanted to pursue her. But that would be cruel, and he couldn’t do that. Not to her.  
There was a knock at the door. “My Lady Herald,” came a voice from outside. “Are you in there?” It belonged to one of Cullen’s men. She was being called away.   
“I’m afraid I’ve taken enough of your time,” she said with a sigh, “But we’ll talk again soon, I hope?”  
His heart thumped harder in his chest. “I would very much like that,” he said.   
She left him standing in the center of the room. He watched her go, and his eyes glancing lower, following the curvature of her ass despite himself. When the door was closed, he sat down and banged his head down on the table. He was in way too deep.


	3. A Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Branwen tries to remind herself why she and Solas couldn't possibly work together. Solas helps her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the events of "Eternity," part 1 of this series.
> 
> Also, as a huge fan of the Elves, the Dalish in particular, one of the things that always made me livid was the way Solas spoke about the Dalish to my Inquisitor. A lot of the dialogue her is lifted from the game, but tweaked to reflect what I wish I could have said to Solas when I was playing.

Branwen dressed in the small cottage that had become her home in Haven. She had some meetings in the later half of the day, but Josephine had intentionally scheduled some time for her to rest and take care of personal business. She needed to swing by the armory. She was still wearing hand-me-down armor, and she needed to get the blacksmith to make her something more permanent. One day or one battle was fine for the armor she was wearing, but the amount of wear and tear she had faced in the past week was too much for the make-shift armor she’d been wearing.

She’d dressed and began to make her way to the blacksmith. However; began and actually made her way to the blacksmith are entirely different things. She had a lot on her mind, and wasn’t particularly paying attention to where she was going. 

Things had blown over since that awkward moment between her and Solas the other day. Bellanaris, her “Bog Unicorn,” as they called him, was being cared for at the stables by a very disgruntled Master Dennet. Bellan was, arguably, not the handsomest steed, but he had a sweet nature that Branwen had become quite fond of. 

As for Solas, their little conversation about their near kiss that they’d had outside of camp one night in the Hinterlands had put to rest any hope she had of growing affection between them. She had been foolish to assume anything at all. Maybe she was just looking for comfort during those trying times. But the more she thought about it, the more she had to remind herself that they would never work together. She was, frankly, too young for him. Or was she? It was no one’s decision who she wound up in a relationship with save herself and the other person involved. She was an adult, and perfectly capable of making her own, rational decisions. If she wanted to court an older man, that was no one’s business but her own. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine her papae’s face. 

One the other hand, though, Solas was an elf. Surely Papae would see that as an upgrade from the last boy Branwen had eyes for. She’d had a tryst with a human boy from a farm town just outside of Kirkwall. Edmund Lowin had been his name. She’d never meant it to become as big of a thing as it did, but everything had gotten out of control. Now, she was here, forced away from her clan after a series of events she longed to forget. All that to say, simply, that Solas being an elf made things much less complicated. One day, after things blew over and she finally could go home, he could come with her.

Could, save for the part where he didn’t have any feelings for her. But that was not the important bit. The important bit is that it wouldn’t work anyways. She reminded herself of that once more. She searched for other reasons, something else to cling to, to ease the hurt.

He was a mage. An apostate at that, not that that meant anything anymore. Edmund had been an apostate, too. That was how she’d ended up on the Templar’s shit list - defending an apostate mage. And now she was here. Elgar’nan damn it all! Even if none of those things had happened, would Keeper Deshanna even let him stay? Fuck - Tanin, one of Branwen’s closest friends, had been forced to leave to live with one of the Ferelden clans due to the rules put in place at the last Arlathvhen. Would the rules change now that the Mages and Templars were at each other’s throats? Would the Dalish worry about such rules without direct enforcement by the Chantry of the Templars? Deshanna was a lot more open than most of the Keepers, and had often been more defiant to rules that she felt caused more harm than good, but she knew when to draw the line. Her people came first.

Her people. Branwen’s people. Despite being an elf, there was no way Solas was Dalish. A man his age would have already been granted his vallaslin. But he didn’t seem like he’d grown up in an Alienage. He was an enigma. Not that she should care, because there was nothing between them, anyways. But if there was, he could always join the clan, right? Elvhes joining later in life were certainly not unheard of. 

Not that it matters, she reminded herself, because he doesn’t even like me that way. 

Looking up from where she’d been staring at her feet, she found herself looking up the steps to where Solas was staring thoughtfully at the Breach. She hadn’t even noticed she’d walked there. And yet, her feet had carried her unknowingly right to him. Again.

Fuck.

He looked down at her as she approached and waved. It was too late to turn around, then. She ascended the steps, wishing she were dead with every muffled crunch of snow beneath her ill-fitting boots.

“Fancy seeing you, here,” she said.

Solas chuckled. “This spot is an excellent place to observe the Breach.”

“I can see that,” she said, turning her attention to the gaping, green tear in the sky. Peering into its depths did nothing to ease her nerves. She turned her attention to the other problem before her: Solas. “You seem like something’s bothering you. What’s on your mind?” 

He looked to his hands, picking them absently. “Closing the Breach is our primary goal, but I hope we might also discover what was used to create it. An artifact of such power is dangerous. The destruction of the Conclave proves that much.”

The problem was a perplexing one, and Branwen welcomed the distraction. “You don’t think whatever created the explosion was destroyed in the blast?”

“You survived, did you not? The artifact that created the Breach is unlike anything seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed unless I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.”

Solas’s worry made her palms sweat. She would bring this to the war counsel tonight. “We would do well to recover whatever created the Breach.”

“Leliana’s people have scoured the area near the blast and found nothing. Whatever the artifact was, it was no longer there. In any case, did you need me for anything?”

“Uh….” she could think of a lot of ways she needed him, but none that she could say aloud. She hadn’t even meant to come here in the first place. She should just say nothing in particular and go. That’s what she should have done. But there was the matter of where he came from… “I’d be interested in hearing your opinions on Elvhen culture.” 

He scoffed, which was definitely not the reaction she’d been expecting. “I thought you’d be more interested in sharing your opinions on Elvhen culture. You are Dalish, are you not?”

Branwen didn’t like the way he said Dalish. She could feel her face flushing. “Yes, I am. And proudly so. Is that a problem? Our people need us. We keep the stories, the culture that the shemlen would steal from us. Sure you can understand that.”

“‘Our people’,” he repeated, “You use that phrase so casually. It should mean more…. But the Dalish have forgotten that. Among other things.

She saw red. “Oh, but you know the truth, right?

“While you pass on stories, mangling details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not.”

She got up in his face. “Then share what you have learned!”

“You think I haven’t tried! Your people rode me off as a lunatic!”

“Then try again!”

He waived her off.

“Or, if we’re so horrible, help the Elves of the Alienages. Do something, instead of sitting here, acting like a pompous ass!” 

“Why?” he shouted, “What would it benefit some poor man in a Ferelden Alienage to known that his ancestors strode the land like gods? It would only make him bitter, or inspire him to take a foolish risk and get himself killed.”

Branwen could see that they were attracting questioning glances from passers-by. She should have cared, but she was too angry to stop now. “You’ve decided his reaction for him. Belittled him beyond thought for his own agency! And what if he does ‘something stupid,’ as you call it? What you call stupid might inspire change! What hope can we have if we never fight back?”

He stepped back and laughed at her. “You have no idea what you’re even saying.”

“I guess not. Guess I’m just a stupid, Dalish elf, with no sense in my thick, Dalish skull!”

Solas lowered his voice, his face stern, but his eyes sad. “This isn’t about you.”

She took a deep breath. “You’ve insulted my people - my family. This is absolutely about me.”

She turned on her heel and left. She headed for the blacksmith, now, no distractions in mind. She and Solas would never work. Not because he wasn’t Dalish, not because of the age difference, and definitely not because of the magic. They would never work, but because   
Branwen would never be able to stand such an insufferable prick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come soon on Solas's perspective.


	4. An Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas seeks advise from an old friend and reconsiders his actions.

Solas had meant every last word he said. The Dalish were a remnant of the former glory of their people. The Dalish were children, reenacting stories misheard and repeated a thousand times. Branwen - despite all the good she had done, despite his admiration for her, she was still little more than an ignorant child herself. He had been right to say what he said.

So why did he feel so guilty?

The answer, of course, was that he was being an ass. He didn’t hate the Dalish - contrary to what Branwen must now think - he just…. He was frustrated by them. They were trying so hard to cling to a culture long dead, one they knew so little about. And they were prideful! He had offered to help, but he’d been pushed away. 

He stared after her as she stormed off before retreating to the privacy of the small cottage he called home. He laid down on his bed, hoping to cool off. He was a wise enough man to know that self reflection was key - though he was old enough he usually thought himself above the skill by now. He’d seen enough to be able to place his actions on the appropriate place of his personal moral spectrum without stopping to mull them over. This was different, though. 

Staring at the ceiling, he churned the events that had just occurred over in his mind. Did he feel that way about the Dalish, or was it something else? He searched through every possibility. He truly felt the Dalish were ignorant, but he had to admit that his anger was misplaced. They were not the problem. He was. They were simply a reminder of the mistakes he’d made - the pain he’d caused his people. That much was simple to work out. But there was even more than that.

The more he thought, the guiltier he felt about what he’d said. Yes, he’d meant every word. Yes, he believed they were beyond hope. Still, he shouldn’t have said what he said. Not to Branwen. That was the worst part of it all.

Or, perhaps, what he said to Branwen was the best thing he could have said to her. He hated that he hurt her, but if hurting her meant that they could both move on from whatever was growing between them, then he had done the right thing. Whatever ill-advised feelings he had for her, they meant nothing in the face of his duty. He could not afford to be distracted, nor did she deserve to be manipulated or betrayed more than was already necessary for his plan to take effect. 

Maybe, just maybe, that was part of what made him resent the Dalish so much. Already, he was feeling a fondness for the Herald that was misplaced. He resented that he could not be with her, despite his longing. If he was honest, he resented her for making him question everything. She was an extension of the Dalish, and so, even though he truly did have issues with the Dalish, he knew that the anger was not at them, but at himself and his situation.

He sighed. A wise man would apologize. A wiser man would let it fester, allow Branwen to hate him, and end their relationship for good. The wisest man would have known to hold his tongue to maintain his distance to begin with. He knew himself well enough to know that his wisdom was clouded by his pride. He needed clarity.

He allowed himself to drift off into the Fade. He chose a reflection of Haven, of the very room in which he sat. She would know to look for him there, and so would be easier to find. 

There was no need to search. She found him first. She always did. She was, perhaps, his oldest friend: a spirit of Wisdom on whom he constantly relied. He had been so like her, once. But that was a long time ago.

“What troubles you, Dread Wolf?” She spoke to him in the old tongue, and he slipped into it with ease. It was a comfort.

“Much,” he said, “I would hear your counsel, Old Friend.”

The spirit settled near him. She floated in the air before the reflection of the bed on which he now sat, her form the vague silhouette of a person. He sat up, then swung his legs over the side to face her. There was no need, really. His command of the Fade was such that he could have been hovering like her, suspended in the nothingness. Still, he behaved as though his body had concrete form. He had always been a create of both worlds. Though he felt more at home in the Fade, he could not deny that he was something more, that his existence extended beyond its confines. He, he treated his body, even the one in the Fade, as corporeal, especially with his friend. He wanted only to be himself with her. 

“What counsel might I give?”

He avoided her gaze when he spoke. “Counsel of the heart.”

“You speak of the girl. The Herald of Andraste.”

He cocked a brow. “You have been watching.”

“What is happening here is of great import. It would be unwise not to watch.”

“Rightly so,” he laughed. “Whatever Branwen Lavellan chooses to do, she holds the fate of us all in her hands.”

“And something else, it seems?”

Her face was amorphous, but Solas could have sworn he saw the slightest trace of a smile. “I can’t think of what you are referring?”

She giggled. “You’re heart, Dear One.”

His gaze shifted back to his feet. “So you’ve noticed.”

“I have. It does not take wisdom to see a truth so evident.”

“I would value your thoughts,” he said. In truth, he was hoping that she might clarify his path. Guidance wasn’t quite the term. Affirmation, perhaps? A declaration that he was doing the right thing. 

“I have not seen you in love for many millennia, my friend.”

He could already sense he would not get the answer he sought. “Love seems an awfully strong word.”

“Affection, then. You care for her.”

“I do,” he admitted. “And I know to do so is unwise.”

“Rightly so,” said the spirit, “if you are to continue your current path.” There was particular emphasis on the word “if.”

Solas raised a brow. “You think my path unwise?”

“I think it complex,” she said, “there are many variables.”

“Are the variables not worth the risk? I have a duty to my people. To Arlathan.”

“Arlathan is dead, Solas.”

He felt that tightness in his chest again, that ever present pain that intensified when he thought of his people. “It can be reversed.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “but you cannot guarantee that.”

He sighed, a concession. “What would you have me do?”

She was silent a moment, lost in thought. At last, she said, “I would have you consider alternatives. That is, after all, the wisest course of action. Even if you still choose to continue on your current path, you can do so knowing it was the right one.”

He glowered at her. What she was insinuating was preposterous. “You’re suggesting that I consider the possibility of a relationship with the Herald?”

“I am saying that Arlathan is dead-”

“-So you’ve said-”

“But you are not! Is it not wise to seek out the path that will bring you fulfillment? Is it not wise to care for the self? Happiness is not a base emotion, nor is it the enemy of rational thought and measured step. You may find that you would do well to pursue her.”

He could hardly speak at her proposal. He had thought she might ask him to apologize, but this? “If I do that, I must give up my duty.”

“‘Must’ is awfully absolute. Dear Friend, do not let your pride blind you to the merit of measured steps. At the very least, the Herald’s position could aid your quest. You do not have to love her to admit that it is unwise to become the enemy of one already so powerful?”

She was right on that count. He had already known so himself, he’d just wanted a confirmation. 

“And as to what else may come, only time will tell. Your emotions are not your enemy, Solas, so long as you balance them with thought. Take your time, befriend her, and see what may become of it. There is still time. You need not rush.”

He did not love her advice, but he saw the merit in it. “I will consider your counsel,” he said. “Thank you, my friend.”

“You are most welcome, Lethalin. Now awake. Go to her. Apologize.”

“I will at least need a moment to gather my thoughts.”

“It grows late in your world. You would be wise to gather them quickly.”

He awoke to a dark room. Already, several soldiers had crawled into the bunks scattered about for a night of rest. He should, for decency’s sake at least, wait until morning. Yet, that ache lingered in his chest at the thought of Branwen’s anger.

Wisdom’s words rang in his ears. “Arlathan is dead, but you are not.”

He groaned, then rose, grabbing his coat and heading for the door.

* * * * *

It was dark when Branwen retired to her quarters. She’d finally been sized for armor. It wasn’t the Dalish armor that she was used to, but it would do. That done, she’d proceed to the Chantry, sitting through War Table meetings and dignitary greetings. During their brief trip to Val Royeaux, the Inquisition had received an invitation to meet the rebel mages at Redcliffe. Despite Cullen’s protest, Branwen had made her intentions clear that she planned to meet with them. The arrangements were made, and it was decided they would leave in two days’ time. Until then, she would rest, recover her strength, and finally get fitted for some decent armor.

Once inside her cottage, Branwen shed her clothes, opting for only a clean tunic to sleep in. She wasted no time crawling into bed and settling down. Just as she blew out the candle that sat lit on her bedside table, she heard a knock at the door. 

She sat up, listening for a “My Lady Herald,” but nothing came. Her mind reeled. It was probably nothing, but she couldn’t quell the fear that grew in her chest. There were many people in the Chantry that wanted her dead. If it wasn’t so late, she’d have thought nothing of it, but at this hour? 

She had a small dagger that she carried with her in the day. At night, she’d taken to sleeping with it beneath her pillow. She grabbed it, not bothering to fully dress herself. She crept towards the door, slowly, not daring to make a sound. She held a hand in front of her, feeling her way forward in the dark. Once there, she pressed an ear to the door and listened. She was greeted once more with a soft knock. Then she heard a voice.

“Branwen? May we speak?”

It was Solas. His voice was gentle, maybe even sad. She was still angry about what had happened. She rocked on her heels, debating what to do. She she send him away? She could. She could just tell him to fuck off an be done with it, be done with their whole relationship then and there. Instead, she caved. Why, she couldn’t say. Maybe she wanted a second chance to put him in his place. Maybe she just wanted to hear his voice. 

“One moment,” she called. She grabbed her trousers and tried to wiggle into them in the dark. She tripped over the legs, hitting the floor with a crash and a loud swear. There was no way he hadn’t heard that. Once the pants were finally over her butt, she jumped, pulsing on the waist until the sat comfortably. Now, her knee bruised, her sleep disturbed, and her anger from earlier still not quelled, she opened the door. “What?” she asked, bluntly, leaning against the frame.

Solas stood before her, but she couldn’t make out his features, not with the dull light of the Breach casting it’s glow from behind, silhouetting him in green and casting a heavy shadow across his face. “I must have woken you,” he said.

“No shit,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I came,” he said, “because I was out of line.”

“Oh,” was her only response. 

“You deserve an apology. I was rude to you, and to your people.”

“Oh,” she said again. She’d been expecting something else, and she’d been ready to go another round if he was. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself, now, at this civil turn of events. 

Despite the lack of response, Solas continued. “I do not agree with the ways of the Dalish. I do not understand all of their customs. And I confess, I have been hurt by their unwillingness to learn, to listen, to engage with me. None of these things; however, justify my anger. I was wrong to have been so cruel.”

As far as apologies went, it was decent. She knew she would not be ready to forgive him right away, but already she could feel herself thawing towards him. “Would you like to come in?” she asked. “It’s freezing out there!”

Her eyes were adjusting, and she saw that he smiled, his face flushed from the chill. “Thank you, but I did not intend to stay. It is late, and we must be well rested if we are to be prepared for the journey ahead. That is, of course, if you will still have me.”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes worried, her voice soft. Then, those words of his flashed through her mind again like the glint of light on the shaft of a steel knife. She was not ready to let him off so easily. “I won’t lie and say I’m not still angry, but I’d be a fool to leave you behind. Seeing a mage beside me may bolster our influence with the Rebels.”

“What of Madame Du Fer? Would she not, too, be an asset?”

Branwen shrugged. “I don’t know. She may be to-”

“Orlesian?” Solas offered.

Branwen laughed. “I was going to say too in line with the Chantry, but, yes, I guess she’s that, too.” She was glad to return to this - their easy banter, the comfortable manner with which they talked. 

Solas nodded, sagely. “I think you’d be surprised at how effective your own influence is, with, or without a mage by your side. Regardless, I am honored to stand by you.” He shuffled his feet in the snow. “I should leave you now. I had not intended to disturb you so late, but…” he almost turned to go, but paused, and in the interim, his eyes met hers. His gaze was intent, as though he was searching for something in her face, an answer to some question he was not asking. It made her feel bare, like he could see through her. She shrank from his intensity. At last, he said, “I could not rest knowing that I had caused you pain.” With that, he turned to go. 

She watched him go, at a loss for words. When she could no longer endure the cold, she closed the door to her cabin, kicked off her pants, and felt her way back towards her bed. She remained awake well into the night, thinking on what Solas had said, remembering the intensity in his eyes when he’d looked at her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slowly starting to introduce more OCs into this fic. While they aren't really the primary focus, most of them are Inquisitors that my friends have made, or that I have made. I grew attached to them, so, even though Branwen will always be my canon Inquisitor, I've carved out places in Thedas for each of them to exist. I hope you enjoy reading about them as much as I've enjoyed creating them.


End file.
